Fear and Loathing and Tony Stark
by you-know-its-actually-funny
Summary: "So what was the plan, huh? Were you going to kidnap one of the wealthiest men in the world, tie him up, call the nearest police station and demand money in your Big Boy voice? Your car has almost no gas, by the way. Garish as it is. Good luck hiding that monstrosity from the cops." Tony goes to Las Vegas and makes an unwise choice for his one-night-stand. Loki/Tony
1. The Fear

**A/N:** I watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and my stupid shit brain went 'make it gay. so here we are.  
(although the only thing this story and the movie have in common is drugs and las vegas. *nervous chuckling* im already fucking it up)

* * *

Tony had been told in the past about the fear of Las Vegas— that this city will swallow you and spit you out along with its plastic-faced-neon-light backwash into the street with nothing but the desert pressing in from all sides and the _fear_.

"What, you folding big guy? Shame, I had a real good one right here. Would've knocked your socks off. Blow you away. What I mean is I had garbage. What's the matter darling? Learn to keep a straight face next time."

If Tony is feeling the fear then he's already drunk enough to drown it.

He throws his horrible hand back at the dealer and drags his chips in. No one looks happy at his winnings, neither the sweaty pink man who's balding way too early for his age or the skinny crack-addict who's lost her hair all together.

He's slumming it, for sure. This casino doesn't even have a pool. But, when you're in the middle of disappearing for a week you have to stay somewhat low. No matter how many sunshine-stained sunglasses or floral print shirts he wears, he's still Tony Fucking Stark.

He does this from time to time. Tells Pepper that it's all getting to him and that he's going to have an episode if he doesn't get away. So Pepper wrangles together a fake schedule so busy and so thick that no-one could get a hold of him. Then she'll book him a flight, burn the computer that paid for it and voilà, Tony Stark is working in California while polishing casino chip in Vegas.

Tony tries himself a little Blackjack. He counts the cards lazily and is kicked out within the hour for his trouble. They take his winnings and discard him onto the street like a dog.

Tony shakes off the humiliation cooly and walks almost immediately into a new joint, one with a pool. And would you look at the crowd! Red-faced fat men in suits and every colour of cheap blonde imaginable, all trying to look as noble as you can in a three star Vegas casino at two in the morning. For once in a very long time Tony is the most underdressed without being completely bare.

Blackjack goes much smoother here and by consequence gets boring much quicker. He takes his chances at the Roulette wheel instead, and that's where he meets the most interesting creature.

He's wearing sunglasses as well, only instead of Tony's orange lenses his are pitch black with no hope of seeing through them. His hair is swept back down to his shoulders where it sits in black, oily waves and his suit is cheaply made. Strangely beautiful and definitely up to something, with the way his fingers keep tapping against his thigh.

Tony can't resist. He saunters up to the Roulette table and watches the mans' ball spin around and around until it lands on unlucky number 13. The man hisses something under his breath and when he sees the hostess drag his chips away his hand trembles.

Tony slaps down a twenty. "Let's make it evens, yeah?" The hostess nods, converts his money and spins. Tony looks at the pale man standing next to him and tries a wink, but he's too focused on the spinning reds and blacks to pay any attention. When the wheel finally stops to give Tony a win, the man gives up altogether and storms off.

"What, not having fun anymore?" Tony calls after him. He watches him disappear into the crowd.

When Tony searches for a drink he finds the strange character again. He's slumped over the cherry red bar with a glass of vodka tonic with a single sad looking olive.

Tony slides up to him and calls for a champagne, not in the mood for hard liquor. His eyes slink up and down his neighbour. He's definitely gotten more pale—his skin now has a sickly gleam to it. That little tick hasn't gone away either—he's tapping the side of his glass like it'll summon him that luck he just hasn't gotten tonight.

"Rough night?"

The man flinches and looks up. He's lost his sunglasses and Tony's met with the most starling shade of green. "By god, it has eyes!" Maybe the man's had more than one glass already or just didn't find Tony funny (unlikely), but the only reaction he gets is a perturbed frown and the cold shoulder. Ouch. "That's okay, I haven't had my finest hour either. Last time I was in Las Vegas I got banned from pretty much all of Paradise, though, so this is a win in comparison."

"Stop…..talking to me," the man says quietly, staring at his drink. The olive bobbles, lonely.

"But you're such a stimulating conversationalist. Also, I'm buying you a drink. Don't want you losing any more of that three dollars you have left."

The man snarls something under his breath but doesn't move when another vodka tonic is placed in front of him. Tony takes a sip of his own drink. "Where you from? You're far too pale for Nevada. Northerner? Hmm…Maine? No? Illinois?"

The man straightens up. Maybe he's figured out that he can't just wish Tony away. "Do you take pride in being this irritating?"

Tony grins. "Well, it's not my worst trait."

"I can imagine."

He tilts his head. "You gotta name?"

"Yes."

"No need to be twisty."

The man takes a long drink. His expression varies between irritation, confusion and something darker, a terror in his eyes, a burden. Maybe he's getting the fear. The silence continues until he releases a breath and leans down again, running both hands through his hair. "Fuck. _Fuck_ …."

Tony quirks a brow. "Mm. One of those nights?"

So quietly that he's not sure if he hears it next to him or in his own head, "If you knew you would be dead tomorrow what would you do?"

Tony frowns. The conversation he was driving so smoothly has suddenly been hijacked. "First off, I would order something much harder than vodka tonic. Why? You in trouble?"

The man rises and looks at him. "I'm Loki."

"Loki….." Tony tastes it in his mouth. "Perfect."

Loki frowns again. "You're famous."

Ah. A bit of the game is up.

He shrugs. "Not right now, not especially. Tony Stark." The more Loki stares the less annoyed he looks.

"Tony Stark…." he echoes.

"Hm? You a fan?"

"I could be."

Even if the guy is only interested now because of his status, it's the first time Loki's flirted back and that means one more step towards getting him into his hotel room.

"That so?" They stare off until Tony finally sees arousal slip into the dizzying green and dread of his eyes. He nods to Loki's drinks. "Finish those—I'm getting you something stronger."

"Who says I want something stronger?"

"Everyone. It tends to be the natural goal of man. And aren't you going to be dead tomorrow? Surely you have some sort of bucket list that involves devilishly handsome men in Vegas casinos."

Loki smiles. It curls across his face in the most attractive way and Tony has to clear his throat before he summons the bartender.

They talk about nothing for the next hour. It isn't so much a conversation then it is a competition, constantly trying to outwit and out-charm each other and Tony must admit, Loki was a formidable opponent, something he feels he hasn't had for a long time.

He never lets up, not even when Tony brings him back to his hotel room and has a fistful of his hair and a mouth on his throat. He grips those skinny hips until he's sure he sees bruises bloom and bites down until he hears the most delightful kittenish gasps and moans. In the end, for all it's worth, he's glad Loki lost at that Roulette wheel. He can taste the desperation on him.

When Tony wakes it's to the pleasant rumble and vibration of a car motor. At first he thinks he's in his garage in Malibu, but then he quickly catches up to his own memories.

 _Vegas, Blackjack, spinning reds and blacks and greens and purples upon pales_ —

He keeps his eyes closed.

He wriggles his hands. They're bound. He wriggles his feet. Same story.

He presses his face down into the car seat and breaths in. Leather. He can feel the desert sun beating down on him through the window.

He takes a gamble and opens his eyes to a slit. It's mostly blur, but there's no mistaking that black hair and white and purple hands gripping the wheel.

 _Fucking_ prick. _Fucking_ asshole.

 _Fucking idiot_.

His brain clicks into survival mode. There's a gun on the passenger seat. He closes his eyes.

His hands are zip-tied. He doesn't worry about his feet for now. He knows how to break a zip-tie. Unfortunately the bitch has tied them behind his back. Breaking zip-ties from the rear is far more complicated and would cause too much attention. He needs to keep quiet. If Loki finds out he's awake it's over.

He feels the heat of the sun. Would it be hot enough? He's already sweating from being in this car for god knows how long. No, he decides. Melting a zip-tie is a loose theory at best and he needs to move fast.

He's going to have to slip out of them. Dislocating his thumb is something he can do, it all depends on how stupid Loki really is.

He tugs his hands. They're tied crossed over each other, tightly. Fuck. He starts by quietly manoeuvring them so they're pressed firmly together. Even this takes some time. Then he flexes.

For the next half-hour Tony remains docile, not making a sound, regulating his breathing as he flexes his wrists every two seconds. Finally, finally, he created enough room for one hand to slide out, but not without more work. Twisting and pulling his hand without grunting or even elevating his breathing is a challenge.

After another few minutes, at last, his hands are free.

Planning his next move proves troublesome. His feet are still bound, which limits both speed and movement. He could attack Loki head on, but the bastard still has the upper hand and could easily thwart him. He could go for the gun, but he doesn't trust his alcohol ridden heart and tied feet to move fast enough.

He finds a different target, and acts.

In one swift movement he springboards up from the back seat and hurls towards the gear stick. Ha! That'll teach Pepper the next time she calls him an old man. Loki barely has time to react before Tony's grabbing the gear stick, hoping to _god_ that this car is an automatic, and pushes it as far as it will go.

The next few minutes are a blur. Tony hears the sickening crunch of his nose breaking on the dashboard and the pop of the airbags and the squeal of the car tires as the world spins and spins around him.

Somehow, Tony finds his mind quick enough to reach down and grab the gun. There's dust everywhere, billowing around the car and making it impossible to see. Suddenly there's an arm around his throat and Loki's ragged breathing in his ear. They struggle like this, both grunting and squirming until Tony bites down on his forearm and Loki releases him with a shout.

Tony gasps and wriggles out of the car and into the dust. He falls to the ground like a pathetic worm, and turns onto his back just in time to catch an armful of Loki tumbling after him.

"You fuck!" Loki snarls, and gets one punch to the face in before Tony swings the gun around to rest on Loki's forehead. The fighting stops.

Tony tastes the blood running down from his nose. It's takes him a long time to catch his breath and when he does he's still trembling.

"Get off me."

Loki looks at them with those mournful green eyes, alive with fury beyond comprehension. There's a gash on his forehead, finger-width, oozing red. Slowly, he slides off of him. Tony gestures to his feet. "Now untie me." Loki does so, in the same slow, simmering fashion.

Tony gets up and resists the urge to stretch. He keeps the gun to Loki's forehead and looks around.

The car has gone off road but not by much. There's an ugly black stain on the road where the tar has melted from the friction. Speaking of:

"This is a fucking ugly car."

Loki obviously wasn't expecting that. But it's true. It's an older build, 1990s maybe, and it is the most hideous shade of green imaginable. Not caring to await Loki's opinion, Tony presses the gun deeper into his skin. "What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" Loki breathes and glares, nothing else. Tony's fine with that. He'll talk his fucking ear off. "Cos whatever it is you're doing a _fucking_ bad job of it. Kidnapping? Really? Are you an idiot? Do you know who I fucking _am_?"

The silent game continues.

"You know what? I don't want you looking at me. Sit down, over there." He gestures vaguely to the north of the car. Loki turns slowly until the gun is at the back of his head, walks over and sits down. "If you even think of moving I'll know about it. I'm not in the mood to murder anyone today but I'll shoot a bitch in the leg."

Loki looks down at his forearm, decorated with the indents of Tony's teeth. "You bit me."

"Yeah well you didn't fucking complain last night!"

Still shaking with adrenalin, Tony searches the car. No water. No food. His phone was left in the hotel room and he can't find another one here. When he checks the boot he finds a gym bag full of drugs.

He looks at Loki squatting in the dirt, looks around at the desert stretching out in every which way, and then he feels the fear.


	2. Overdose

Tony zip-ties Loki's hands for good measure. "Where would I run?" he scoffs when Tony tugs his arms behind his back. Tony ignores him. He would trust a snake more.

Afterwards he gets in the car and turns on the radio. After a good thirty minutes of searching he finds no news of his kidnapping. But of course he wouldn't— according to everyone that knows him he's still in California, ignoring work and sitting on his balcony sucking on fruity drinks.

He turns the car off and growls. He would chuck Loki in the back of the car and drive, but he doesn't have any more zip-ties and even with his arms subdued Tony doesn't want to take that chance. The fuel meter is low, and Tony only knows the desert from 30,000 feet above in the comfort of his private jet.

No way to call anyone. No way to get out. He looks up at the high noon sun.

Fuck.

Irritated and over-heated, he grabs Loki's discarded jacket from the passenger seat and wraps it around his head. He leans against the car and looks at Loki squatting a couple feet away in the dust and rocks. His crisp white shirt already has patches of sweat over his back and collar and his hair sticks to his forehead in clumps. Loki is obviously trying not to let it affect him and is doing a terrible job. Not that Tony's immune to this scalding weather either; the yellow pineapples on his shirt are sticking to his skin.

"So what was the plan, huh?" he gestures mockingly. "Were you going to kidnap one of the wealthiest men in the world, tie him up, call the nearest police station and demand money in your Big Boy voice? Your car has almost no gas, by the way. Garish as it is. Good luck hiding that monstrosity from the cops." Tony looks at the car and something catches his eye. A sticker on the windshield saying ' _Spring Valley Rentals_ '. "And oh?" He tears the sticker off. "What's this? A stolen rental? I'm almost surprised." He scrunches it up and flicks it at Loki.

"Just to clarify how childishly incompetent you are—" Loki twitches—"this is how your terrible little plan would've worked out: considering how important I am to the American Army you would've been hunted down and shot on sight for _terrorism_. Even if you managed to escape you've been crawling your way through every Las Vegas casino for the past 24 hours. I think someone would have a little something called surveillance tape. Honestly, you're lucky I stopped you when I did."

Loki releases a deep breath and stretches his neck up to bask directly under the sun, eyes closed. His throat bobs and Tony hopes his speech has at least sunk a stone in him. Unfortunately for Tony's temper, the next thing he hears is:

"Would you mind getting some water? I'm getting terribly thirsty."

Tony grabs the gun, charges over to him and presses it to his throat. "We don't _have_ any water."

Loki looks impassive to the threat. He blinks an eye open, studying the blood still dripping from Tony's nose.

"You're really very affected by this," Loki says. "It wasn't personal."

"Personal?" He presses the gun deeper. "I don't enjoy getting _fucked_ then getting _fucked over_."

Loki appears to try a smile, but can only manage another dry swallow. Tony holds the gun there, picturing the oh-so-sweet image of slapping that silent smirk off of Loki's face. But no, he _knows_ what those eyes looks like balancing on the verge of fear, that face contorted into complete submission. He's just glad he pulled that hair as hard as he did the night before.

The adrenaline finally wears off and Tony pulls the gun away. His nose is really starting to sting. The sand getting stuck in the slowly drying blood is not appreciated either.

In the end, he decides the best plan of action is to wait. He doesn't know where they are and that road sure doesn't look like the most travelled, but it's only a matter of time before someone stumbles upon them. So he sits in the passenger seat, door open, making use of Loki's sunglasses whilst trying to fan himself with a spa brochure. He's given up trying to pick the shit out of his split nose.

After another twenty minutes sitting in the direct heat Loki can stay silent no longer. He pants, legs trembling until they collapse into a kneel. There isn't a pore in his body that isn't dripping sweat but Tony doesn't worry. When the sweat stops, that's when you worry.

When Tony looks at him he feels pity, so he avoids doing it altogether. He keeps the bitterness. It's what will keep him alive, keep him on his toes. Maybe he could turn the car's air-conditioning on.

After a few more minutes the silence gets to him. "So what was it? Got into trouble with your boss? What about those drugs in the back, you steal those too?"

Maybe Loki's closer to sunstroke than Tony thought, because he gets a straight answer out of him.

"I need….money."

"Right. Is that why you were at the casino?" Loki's body starts to shake. "What did you do? Did you steal those drugs? Were you sent to drop them somewhere?"

"I.….have a debt," Loki grinds out, body heaving with the effort of keeping him upright.

"You're an addict." It's not a question. Suddenly the sickly skin and shaking makes a lot more sense. The heat is just making the withdrawal worse. The pathetic noises aren't helping Tony's compassion problem. "Well," he says quietly, "that explains a lot."

"Please," Loki gasps. "Please….I can't breathe." When Tony doesn't answer he gives a strangled sob, bowling over and pressing his forehead into the dirt.

"Okay, okay, okay," Tony says, grabbing the gun and getting up. "I'll put you in the shade." He walks over and hauls Loki up by the arm. Loki's legs shake weakly as he drags him over to the side of the car and plops him down. "Same rules—if you move you lose your favourite testicle." He waves his gun over him.

Loki slumps against the hot metal, sighing with relief. Tony grunts and walks back to the passenger seat and sits down, chucking the gun onto the driver's seat. He wishes he had a cigarette. He's in the mood for a cigarette. He'd like to burn his insides as much as his outsides.

So Loki was an addict. Of what, he can't even imagine. The bag in the trunk had the most colourful array of narcotics he's ever seen. Just from the shaking and sheer desperation of him would suggest heroin. Nasty stuff. Nasty world to get into. He wonders how long Loki will last, either out in this sun or out in the world.

He hears a click. Something's pressing against the back of his skull.

"Get out of my car."

The first thing Tony thinks is _how the hell did you get out of your zip-tie_? But then he looks to where Loki has been squatting among the dust and dirt and _tiny, sharp rocks_.

The fucker's been quietly sawing at his bonds for the past hour. And of course there'd be a hiding spot for another weapon. Idiot.

He tries to look at the gun sitting on the drivers' seat but Loki is quick. He grabs the back of Tony's shirt collar and throws him to the ground. Tony hits the dirt with a choke and before he can spin around or even attempt at concocting some ridiculous plan, Loki is stepping down _hard_ on his back. He doesn't need to see to know that the gun is hovering just over his head.

He lays still and spits the sand from his mouth. "That was a lot of strength from a guy who was on the brink of heatstroke," he wheezes. He hears Loki tsk, but his voice is still dry and cracks. Tony wonders how much he was pretending.

The foot lifts off of him. "Get up. And if you try anything, I'll shoot you in the head. Since you so lovingly explained how much of a dangerous asset you are, you are now expendable."

Tony grimaces, but slowly gets to his feet.

It turns out there were more zip-ties. A whoooole bunch of them. If Tony hadn't been so hasty and properly searched the car, maybe he wouldn't be in this situation.

As it stands, he's in the car again. The back of the car, mind you, with his arms locked behind his back in three different places and five different places all down his legs. Loki also took the liberty in taking his jacket and sunglasses back, and then liberated Tony from his shirt. Because he's an asshole.

Tony is uncomfortable. The trunk is tiny and he's practically in the foetal position, contorting his body to accommodate the giant bag squeezed in with him. He guesses this is Loki when he finally says 'no more Mr Nice Guy'. Loki doesn't seem on board with the whole kidnapping fiasco anymore so Tony can only imagine where the nut-job is taking him. He imagines getting dragged into some hostel where he'll be tortured for days, or maybe some isolated bungalow out here in the desert, or maybe Loki's just going to drive until he finds a suitable place to chop Tony's head off and bury him.

Of course Tony avoids thinking about all this because he's used up half the air in this trunk already and he really can't afford to have a panic attack. So, slightly high off gas fumes, he tries to sleep.

Success! When the car finally comes to a stop and the sound of footsteps crunching on the dirt wake him up, he's in more of a bad mood than ever.

The trunk is opened, sending dust falling into his eyes and blissful fresh air into his lungs. Tony gasps in the luxury and squints up at Loki. And boy, does he look like a piece of work. Trembling, pale, sickly, and looking like he's lost weight just in the couple hours they've been driving.

Outside is starting to get dark. He underestimated how far a quarter tank of fuel and this shitty little car could take them.

Loki has the gun again, but Tony doesn't find it necessary. It's like seeing an old friend at this point.

"We're stopping at a gas station a few miles ahead," Loki says, voice crackling with every word. "Stay down and don't be an idiot." And then he's returned to darkness.

Let it be said that Tony was a survivalist at heart. He's survived accidents, alcohol poisoning, thirty-one years of eating nothing but garbage and all together just a bunch of shit he shouldn't have. So when Tony Stark is met with a situation that he can't crack—well, that just won't do.

He decides he doesn't want to die today.

Shuffling and wheezing all the while, he manages to tip the gym bag on its side with his teeth. Packets of pills, cocaine, crystal, grass and enough sheets of acid to take you to Wonderland fall out, like a twisted druggies' banquet. He bites down on a bag of cocaine, rips it open, and eats.

It's like someone has kicked a drum in his chest. And keeps…..kicking, no, SLAMMING, drumming, a rhythm—

Tony chokes. His throat closes up. So does his hands, spine, eyes, and pretty much everything else. He's done coke before, he knows he has, but this…this….

It's like his atoms are speeding through life, dying, then beginning all over again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and —

God he wants to run, he NEEDS to run, all this energy, he's sucking it from his core, it's gonna burn out, it's gonna burn out—

Something's stopped, he's no longer moving (he NEEDS to move), the low rumble and jolt of the boot has silenced and he knows where they are, he knows exactly what he has to do, god he needs to do what he has to do, he needs—

BANG! They're kicking that drum again and this time it's so violent that it brakes the skin and goes straight into his heart.

Doors opening. He's in a car and he needs to do what he has to do.

Arms are jerking, twitching and wriggling and shivering until he's punching the same tune he feels onto the car metal.

Footsteps and clicks and snaps and bright light and _I'm dying I'm dying I'm dying I'm dying I'm dying I'm dying I'm dying I'm dying_ —

"What….what have you done?"

(is this god?)

 _(I'm dying I'm dying I'm dying)_

"What have you _done?!_ "

Hands, not his own but just as clammy grab him and Tony can't for the life of him (haha) remember if he should have lungs or not, because suddenly his world is full of gasps and struggle like he can't believe.

"What did you take?! _What did you take?!_ You imbecil! Idiot! Fuck. Fuck! Fuck. Do you know how much people _pay_ — no, no, no, eyes open, eyes open, keep your eyes—"

The drum stops. Cut to black.


End file.
